Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral)
Page 17
As they rode closer, a small raven, black and grizzled, landed on Arthur’s boot to peck at the blood and gore. The young man noticed and kicked it away — but it took to the air and then dove at his face, cawing and raking its claws at his eyes. Three times it attacked him before he was able to drive it away.
As they arrived, Merlin dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Hail, victor of the battle.”
“Ah, get up,” Arthur said. “I’ve had enough of that at the fortress.”
Dwin clucked his tongue. “Truly, truly — you should have seen the ladies. Falling down and worshiping the very ground he walked upon.”
“There weren’t . . . no . . . don’t believe him.”
“Ah, but you wished for them,” Culann said. “I saw you looking around.”
Merlin stood, smirked, and hugged Arthur. “Vortigern didn’t know you?”
“Not a screpall.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“And Vortipor . . . ?”
“Dead.”
“And the fortress grieves?” He wanted to say Vortigern’s name again, but it was so acidic on his tongue the first time, he couldn’t even stutter out the word.
“That’s not all,” Arthur said, bitterness coloring his voice. “With Glevum destroyed, the Picti attacking in the north, and his son dead, Vortigern has called for a truce.”
“What? After you saved them from losing the battle?”
Arthur sighed, dismounted, and checked Casva’s bit. “He’s asking for peace with the Saxenow so they’ll help him fight the Picti. They’ve set a meeting tomorrow night at Hen Crogmen.”
“The old stone gallows? That’s a pagan place.”
“Vortigern has druidow advising him.”
Merlin raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “No surprise.”
“It’s five leagues, so we should leave immediately, unless you want to travel with Vortigern in the morning.”
“Are you sure this is the right course?”
“Vortigern requires my attendance.”
Merlin spat. “He does, does he?”
“As the victor of the battle — ”
“He wants to parade you around.”
“I don’t think so. I killed Horsa, one of the Saxenow leaders. That would only enrage them.”
Merlin thought for a moment, trying to sift out the right course from the clamor of his conflicting desires. “I don’t like this, and I advise you not to go.”
Arthur shrugged. “It’s already been arranged. Besides, Fodor told me Vortigern makes peace with the Saxenow every few years.”
“This may be different. In the past, Vortigern was only admitting that the Saxenow could keep the land they had taken, which was in and of itself a travesty. From what you say, it sounds like he’s giving up.”
“You think so?”
“You said it yourself. Glevum is destroyed. Vortipor is dead. No help is coming from the north. How can Vortigern fight on?”
“The people would never surrender. The kings and chieftains would never — ”
Merlin looked away, afraid anger could be seen in his eyes. “They have allowed it. Farm by farm . . . village by village . . . hill fort by hill fort.”
“And you think us running away will fix it? The Saxenow will just leave?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“We’re going.”
Merlin had to chew on this. Nothing seemed right. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to go to the Stone Gallows, didn’t want to help Vortigern.
But Arthur did, and no matter how rancid the bite, Merlin had to swallow it.
They traveled south that day and camped in the fastness of the woods. After the sun had set, taking along with it the dismal heat, a half moon appeared high in the western sky, fringed with the hint of flames. And far off in the southwest, amongst the Dobuni hills, there came the sound of wolves howling.
Merlin, with fear in his heart, pulled out the scrap of Natalenya’s skirt. Folding it in his hands, he began to pray for her. Almost immediately, the fabric became wet. He looked up through the trees; there was not a cloud in the sky, and no rain could have fallen from the stars that burned above him.
So why was the fabric wet? He checked the bag it had been kept in and found it perfectly dry. Once more he prayed for her in perplexity.
Taliesin stood next to his mother at the wall, his heart burning with anger as he looked down at the desecration enacted by the massed army of the Picti. His mother had told him to expect an attack the day before, but it had not come, and this had confused him . . . until now. Apparently the Picti had sent chariots and horsemen down the valley and had caught the horse tenders and brought back all the horses that he’d thought had escaped.
And now they were sacrificing them to their gods.
Each horse was brought before a hastily built altar of stone, and there they slit its throat. Soon the river in the valley ran red, and Taliesin’s breakfast convulsed within his stomach until it threatened to crawl up his throat. The little foals that he loved to rollick with and pet were killed, one by one. The older horses died too, and only the young geldings, mares, and war-worthy horses survived that butcher of a priest’s blade.
His mother began to cry, and though he tried to comfort her, she sat down and looked away. Pulling the long edge of her skirt up to her eyes, she bunched it together and used it to dry her face, but the tears wouldn’t stop.
“All our long work is being undone,” she whispered, and the words took his breath away.
With a hot hand he unsheathed his blade once more, the blade his father had made for him, and, oh, how he wished now that the edges had been sharpened like the tip. The blacksmith had moved some of his tools up to the top of the fortress, and Taliesin set off to find him. Maybe something could be done to make his blade more deadly.
Do you know the way to Hen Crogmen?” Arthur asked. His legs were sore from riding, and Merlin and the others looked equally weary beside him.
The man turned, set down his ragged sack, and looked up to reveal a gap-toothed frown jutting out from a sun-browned, wrinkled face.
“Aye. Ya got some’un to hang?” he asked.
“No, that’s not our purpose,” he said, groaning inwardly. Twice before when he’d inquired about the way, people had asked whether or not they had someone to hang.
“Right. Well, ye’d haf trouble finding a spot wiffout cuttin’ an old one down first — ”
“Do you know where it is? We were told it was down this way.”
The man pointed a gnarled finger down the path. “Turn at de old oak, cross de river, and keep to de paf. Not far, not far.”
Arthur led the way, and soon found the oak the man spoke of. Dead and dry, its roots curled from the thick, barkless trunk and twisted down into the ground like massive worms. Beyond the tree, a path forked away and wound its way slowly downhill through a stand of ghost-like plane trees.
Eventually they came to a brown stream, shrunken from the drought, and there, at the edge of the mud, knelt an old woman. Sobs welled from her chest, and her hands scrubbed a blood-stained tunic, reddening the water.
Arthur wanted to ask her who had died, but as she looked up at him, her weeping only increased, and he was embarrassed for disturbing her task. He pressed his horse forward until it sloshed through the stream and mounted the far bank. The others did the same.
After a league or more traveling southwest through an oak forest, they entered a wide clearing and found Hen Crogmen, the largest roundhouse that Arthur had ever seen. It was nearly one hundred and fifty feet across and built within a broad ditch and bank enclosure that surrounded the site. The outer wall was built from pairs of bluish-gray stone pillars topped with a stone lintel of similar girth — the set of three stones together measuring about ten feet tall. Inside this circle was an inner circle of twenty-six foot-tall stones. The network of lashed roof timbers angled up from the outer wall and rested on the inner to form
a cone, but some of these timbers had fallen and the old thatch roof was dilapidated.
From what Merlin had told him, the site predated even the druidow, and its original purpose had been lost in the obscurity of time. Around two millennia ago, lore said, the order of druidow came to be formed and they adopted the site, used it for ceremonial purposes, and maintained it. And only now, as the disrepair showed all too well, did the fall of the druidow from favor begin to reveal itself — what with the Romans having killed many of them and most of the people turning to Christ.
One thing known, however, was that the druidow and the locals both used it to hang people — thus earning its ancient name, “The Old Stone Gallows.”
From inside the building came the cawing of crows, and Arthur, curious, rode his horse into the large open door before him. Although it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, his nose was instantly assaulted with the overwhelming stink of death. There, between each and every pair of standing stones, hung a dead body. Many were old . . . so old that nothing but their skull and spine were left hanging from the rotting rope, while others were fresher. One man to Arthur’s right, in fact, looked like he had been hung only that day, and this is the one the crows fought over. His tunic was missing and he had a slice through his right ribs that let blood down his side and leg until it had finally clotted in the dirt below.
“Why would Vortigern want to hold a truce here?” Arthur asked, his strong voice swallowed up in the cavernous building.
Merlin rode his horse forward and surveyed the scene. “It’s an ancient idea, and can be found in the words of the oldest scripture. When God made a covenant with Abraham, He told him to bring various animals and cut them in half and arrange the pieces opposite each other. Then God promised Abraham that unless all the vows of the covenant were fulfilled, then He, God, would die like the animals. Abraham understood what God did because this is how the king’s of old made vows with each other.”
Arthur turned to him, a little confused. “And God — through Jesu Christus — died because we failed, correct?”
Merlin nodded. “In that sense, the covenant was different than the ones between men.”
“So by holding the truce here, Vortigern is saying that if either side breaks the truce, they’ll become like these . . .”
“Yes.”
Merlin advised them to make camp in a hidden little clearing just beyond the line of trees. It was a place where he could stay without being detected while Dwin, Culann, Peredur, and Arthur joined the army for the truce meeting. Arthur, due to his bravery in battle, had been invited much closer than the others.
And so when evening came, and Vortigern finally showed up, Merlin was left alone to pray. He sat upon a fallen log, its bark missing and its hard flesh crisscrossed with the hungry trails of ants. After spending a long time thanking God for their protection thus far, Merlin turned his thoughts to Natalenya, Tinga, and Taliesin. Pulling out the piece of skirt Natalenya had given him, he held it against his cheek to feel the softness.
Before he could remove the fabric, however, he heard a distinct ripping sound and felt it shift beneath his hand. He jerked it away — and the material had torn.
Baffled, he prayed fervently, hoping his family was safe.
Taliesin smelled the smoke and cursed the Picti, so far below him. They were burning the roofs of the village houses and demolishing their stone walls. Even the great stable was on fire, and its roof shone bright in the darkening shadow of the setting sun. Worst of all was seeing his own home destroyed — the place that had always felt safe to him. It was gone so quickly, and it made him want to scream.
“Taliesin!” a man called from farther down the rampart. It was Bedwir. “Join the others carrying rock.”
“To throw at the Picti?”
“Go!”
“That sounds fun,” he said. He wanted to hit every one of ’em in the noggin for destroying their beautiful village.
Bedwir marched over and placed a hand on Taliesin’s shoulder. “There’s nothing fun about it. This is life and death.” The scratch on Bedwir’s forehead had faded some, but the ugly wound on his arm wasn’t getting any better.
Licking the dryness of his lips, Taliesin nodded. “I know.”
“Then get to work.”
The evening breeze felt cool on Taliesin’s shoulders as he ran down the wooden stairs and joined the others. Everyone who could was helping, from little Tinga carrying smaller rocks collected in the fold of her dress, to old Brice and his wife, who carried a basketful of the larger ones between them. Lacking men and weapons, they needed every possible means of repelling the Picti.
Most of the rocks were being gathered from the base of the central tower. Taliesin found an empty basket and chose a spot next to his mother to pick through the pile for those that seemed right for throwing.
His mother gathered her rocks from near the broad, oaken door, and her face was lined with a determination that Taliesin had rarely seen before. He knew more than anyone to steer clear of her when she was angry, but this was different. A desperate sort of look.
Her basket full, she turned and patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks for helping.”
Taliesin nodded.
She left to carry her rocks to the wall, but the edge of her skirt became caught on a loose nail and tore. She pulled it free with a look of frustration and continued on.
Withel, a boy three years older than Taliesin, came up and bopped him on the head with his fist.
Taliesin spun to find the boy sneering down at him.
“Thanks for having rocks in your head, harp-boy.”
“Leave me alone.” Heat rose up Taliesin’s neck, and hovered just below his ears as he finished filling his basket.
“If there was another horse pie up here, I’d drop you in it again.”
As the boy turned away, Taliesin took a large, jagged rock, dropped it down the backside of the boy’s pants, and ran off with his basket. “Thanks for having rocks in your pants, lion-face!”
“Hey!” Withel tried to fish the rock out, but it slipped down one of his pant legs and got caught at the place where it narrowed just behind his knee.
Taliesin laughed as he ran to the wall.
Withel hopped noisily after him, shouting and pumping his fist.
When Taliesin got to the top of the stairs, though, all thoughts of being chased died. The people stood still, watching something over the wall with solemn concentration. He ran to his favorite spot where a stone section was a little lower and from there he surveyed the valley below. A mass of Picti were marching up the path toward the fortress, and though it was getting dark, there was still enough light to see that most of them carried spears.
Withel joined him, holding the rock he had fished from his pants. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t know.”
As the men climbed the zigzagging, steep path toward the gate, they would sometimes drop from view behind a boulder and then reappear somewhere else.
Mother and Great-Aunt Eira came to stand about ten feet from Taliesin. Tinga nestled in their mother’s arms, her little face twisted in a frown.
When the Picti were finally within hailing distance, Taliesin caught his breath to see a monk among them. He was wearing a simple brown woolen robe, just like Brother Loyt who served the inhabitants of their valley. Only this monk had a coarse bag slung over his shoulder, which he held protectively. But this wasn’t one of the valley’s monks, for he had sandy-red hair and was slightly stout, with a plump if resolute jawline. And he was old. He had to be nearly thirty winters.
There was a bound man with them as well, stooped low, with a bag tied over his face. Guards stood behind him with short spears, and beyond them were fifty or more Picti on the path ready to fight.
The party came to stand before the gate, above which stood Bedwir, Caygek, and Brother Loyt, ready to parley, it seemed. They forced the bound man to kneel, and there they tied his feet tightly with rope.
One of the Picti was a full head taller than the rest, and his clothes were much showier. Over his bare, painted upper body lay a royal blue robe with a fur collar, and below were red-checkered breeches. At his throat lay a beautiful golden torc with the ends fashioned like two hawks. The man’s bright red hair was long, immaculately braided and banded with rings of gold. He had a long nose, and though Taliesin couldn’t see the man’s eyes closely, he thought they must have been green based on the way the sun glinted off of his predatory gaze.
This one barked an order in a dialect Taliesin had never heard — sort of a twisted, throaty form of their own language. Two of the warriors snapped to attention and poked their spears into the monk’s back, forcing him to step forward and look up at those on the wall. His left eye had been bruised badly, and the puffy bag of skin hanging under had turned purplish-green.
“To those inhabitin’ Dinas Crag, I have been brought before you unwillin’ly to translate the demands o’ Necton Morbrec mac Erip, High King of the Picti.”
At these words, Mother screeched, startling Taliesin. What did she expect the monk to say?
She pushed her way across the rampart until she stood over the gate with the men.
“Garth!” she called, and the monk squinted his good eye back up at her, the sun partially blinding him.
“Who . . . who is it?” the monk asked. “Who knows me?”
Taliesin’s mother looked at Brother Loyt, Bedwir, and Caygek, and then back at the monk.